Fire
by leopharry
Summary: Four years ago, he did something he would never stop regretting. It was the stepping stone to his future life as a delinquent. And though he wants nothing more than to forgive himself and let it go, what else can he do?


**A/N:** The story takes place just after the Trial by Tri-Armed Triathlon episode. There's some (probably wrong) French, but the translation is right next to it for those of you who don't speak it, or those of you who do and don't understand my pitiable attempt at it. Rated T for harsh language.

Enjoy.

* * *

"Oh yea?" I challenged, raising an eyebrow with bravado. "Well, I'll raise your dare. For all the money you've all got in your pockets, I'll go in and light it on fire."

The other boys' eyes went wide in shock. They noticed how the fading daylight cast ominous shadows over my eyes, and I saw, from where I was standing a few meters away, a dark look fall upon my young face, seeing myself grow visibly impatient while the others debated, sharing panicked looks with each other. Eventually, my challenging look grew into one of skepticism. I remembered thinking, '_how long are these pansies going to wait?_'

Eventually, one of them, Devon, said, "But... won't you get into trouble?"

I rolled my eyes. "It's already condemned. Who's gonna miss it? They're knocking it down on Thursday anyways." I grinned, and the shadows contorted. My expression looked less challenging than demonic now. "I'd be doing the city a favor."

At the time, I thought they looked skeptical; seeing it now, they looked more distressed than doubting. "But..."

"Look," I said, noticeably impatient to the other boys now. "It's a crummy old building. It's going to be knocked down anyways. Nobody's gonna miss it. If anything, they'll thank me. And if they don't, then I'll tell them it was all my idea, and that none of you are to blame. I won't mention any names." Then I held up my hand. "Swear."

The others seemed to be appeased, or at least, a little less worried. They knew I may not have been the best behaved boy in existence (clearly not, if I was about to burn down a house), but they also knew I was fatally loyal, and would keep my word if it meant my life—not that it ever had before this. But still.

We parked our bikes in the park just down the street and sat at an old, holed picnic table. Together, Devon, Jean, Richard and Alexandre pooled their allowance money and came up with seventy-six dollars and thirty-two cents. They all gave it to Jean, who was very responsible with money, and we came up with a plan: I would go in, rip off some wallpaper, light it, then high-tail it out of there. We would ride away and, if we watched the news the next morning and saw it on there, Jean would give me the money and nobody would be any the wiser.

So, leaving my bike in the park, I ran to the house. I figured it was dark enough for nobody to see me, and, even if they did, it was dark enough for me to be unrecognizable. It was easy enough to enter the house; I'd been picking locks for years, something my brothers taught me, and the city hadn't put any extra safety measures on the house (who would waste that kind of money on a condemned building?), so I was granted easy access.

The first thing I did was tear off wallpaper. I watched myself rip and shred and throw it all in a small pile, analyzing it, feeling it, judging how long it would take to light and how flammable it was. Wondering if maybe I would need to use some kind of enhancer, like gasoline. I decided that I would need something to help it light better, and examined the small garage.

'_Wait. That's not right..._' I thought confusedly, watching myself enter the small attached garage and find a bright red gas can. I carried the gas can into the living room and set it on the ground. Then I tore off some more wallpaper.

I watched in concern as I finally opened the gas can and quickly poured it all over the ground. '_This isn't how it was supposed to happen!_' I tried to shout. I couldn't hear it. Then I took one small strip of wallpaper and lit it with my lighter, and I stopped, threw it on the pile and watched as the flame quickly grew high, higher, reaching the ceiling.

Then both of me watched in horror as the flame changed. It turned bright blue with heat and changed into a large, blob-shaped monster, with eyes of black charcoal.

And it reached out to grab me...

* * *

I opened my eyes wide, gasping loudly, flinching and sending my iPod to the ground. I didn't move, paralyzed in fear, expecting the fire hand to finally embrace me, burn me, suffocate me and finally kill me. I took short, shallow breaths. My mind was racing at top speed, trying to process several things at once; it was a dream. There was no fire hand. None of that had actually happened. I was okay.

Then my stomach sank. None of that had actually happened? That was a lie.

Finally, I jumped down from my bunk, and scooped up my iPod and headphones. I examined it closely, focusing all my attention on it, pressed a few buttons, and was relieved to find that it was still functional. Too bad I wasn't.

I put on a pair of shorts and a muscle shirt and went outside to sit on the porch. I sat with my legs hanging over the edge, my arms resting on the railings, and my head resting on one hand. My iPod was on, playing loudly, and I tried to drown out the dream. It worked, for a little while. I couldn't think of anything but lyrics. When I was sure I could sleep again without waking up scared out of my wits, I climbed back into bed. Checking the clock on my iPod, I read one thirty-seven before I slowly drifted off to sleep.

* * *

I was back in the house, lighting the strip of wallpaper again, only this time, it was the way it should be: no gasoline. I watched myself light the paper, then sit for a while, watching it as it slowly burned. I thanked God that there were curtains in this place; the neighbors wouldn't see the flickering of flames until it was too late.

Eventually, the fire spread to the wall, licking the carpet and burning the glue that remained from the torn wallpaper. I was starting to get dizzy from the smell, so I left the room and headed outside.

Once I was out, I turned back around and was surprised to fine that the entire house was burning with a speed that only dreams can accomplish. Both of me looked at it in surprise. I hadn't known it would go up in flames so fast! I'd just about turned back around and walked away when I heard it.

* * *

The scream rung in my ears over the sound of music, and, no matter how loud I turned up the volume, the scream could not be drowned out. I wasn't as afraid this time; to be honest, I'd expected it. I was thinking about the accident a lot lately, and the dreams always nagged me when I thought about it too much.

I looked at the clock on my iPod. It was still only four in the morning, but I was certain I couldn't go back to bed. I wasn't sure I wanted to anyways. Still in the clothes I'd put on earlier, I shoved my Chucks on and headed outside to the beach.

Even though it was summer, it was kind of chilly. Not cold enough to make me go back and change, but cold enough to make me wish I were wearing pants instead of shorts. It was just slightly colder down by the water, but still, it didn't matter. I sat on the sand just outside the range of the tide. My Chucks, however, were not so lucky; they got soaked, and I felt the cold water soak into my feet, icy cold. I sat there and let it. To be honest, I didn't even feel it. My thoughts were elsewhere, far from here and long ago...

* * *

I'd been nine days shy of my twelfth birthday. My friends and I were riding around in a suburb of Old Quebec city, where we lived, when we passed it. The Old House, everybody called it. So old it was condemned. Nobody was allowed to live in it. People weren't allowed to go inside. Naturally, us being almost-twelve-years-old boys, we spent most of our time daring each other to go inside. One day, about a week before it was due to be taken down, I finally took the dare and challenged it, to make it the best dare possible: I would burn it down.

I got the idea from a movie I'd watched; in it, a boy went to this guy's house and burned it down, because the guy was actually a pedophile. I figured, since a bunch of squatters used the house to do drugs out of public view, it was sort of the same thing, right?

Whatever. Even if it wasn't, it's not like it was hurting anybody. If anything, I was helping.

At least, that's what I'd believed.

Anyways, my dare was eventually accepted. If I won, I would receive seventy-six dollars and thirty-two cents. And no foul if I didn't win.

But I **would** win.

I entered the house at dusk. I was so certain that nobody had been able to see me. I was quick, and entered the decrepit old house swiftly. The door hadn't had any extra security, and the lock was easily picked. I crept inside, looked around for any signs of life, and shut the door behind me. It was just as crummy inside as it was outside. It reeked of booze, drugs and age. There was also a slight undercurrent aroma of vomit and feces, but it was predominantly booze and drugs. The dust was visible, coating thickly every flat surface and some not-so-flat surfaces too.

I walked around for a minute, just observing the old house. I could see how it might have been appealing when it was clean. The carpets might have needed to be replaced, but the paint job wasn't so bad; neutral browns and greens, except the living room. It was obviously wallpaper, which was very helpful. I was dreading having to tear up floorboards or something. I closed the curtains, not that it mattered; the windows were too dirty to see into or out of anyways.

I tore off as much wallpaper as I could and piled it in the center of the room. I wasn't putting much thought into what I was doing. I moved robotically, forward and back, up then down. Finally, I ripped off a smaller piece of the wallpaper and set fire to it. Then I put the lit piece on the other pile and sat and watched for a while. The flame grew slowly, spread out to the carpet, the walls, the curtains. I was entranced, enthralled. Then I remembered that my friends might be able to see the flames, but definitely could not see me. So I ran back to them, and we jumped on our bikes and took off. Once we got back into the city, we parted for the night. Since it was almost dinner time, I rode home as quickly as possible.

I parked my bike in the garage and ran inside just in time.

"You were almost late, Duncan," my mom said, giving me a mischievous grin. I grinned back.

"Sorry Mom. We went riding around the suburbs and I lost track of the time," I told her, running to the sink to wash my hands. I scrubbed quickly, my palms, the back, each finger. I hoped she didn't smell the smoke on me, but the smell of pork and cheese baking was strong, so she probably didn't notice.

"Hurry up and go sit!" She called to me from over by the oven. She was pulling out a casserole, and, since she had to use both hands, she couldn't open the door. With my hands still dripping wet, I ran to the door to the dining room and opened it for her. She smiled warmly at me in appreciation.

"_Merci, mon petit monstre_," she said teasingly (_Thanks, my little monster_). I smiled and followed her through the door, drying my hands on my jeans.

Dinner that night had been the last happy time I'd had in a long time. Me, my mom, my dad and my brothers had talked and joked and laughed as always. That was back when my dad didn't think I was a no-good punk. When my mother wasn't constantly disappointed in me. When my brothers pulled pranks with me without worrying that I would take them too far.

Then the next day came and everything good was ruined.

It started with me waking up in my bed, like always. The sun was shining brightly through my window. I smiled and climbed out of bed. I didn't bother changing out of my pajamas. I wasn't going anywhere for a while; it was Saturday, which meant I didn't have to do anything. So I threw on a pair of socks and shuffled downstairs.

Since it was Saturday, my mom stayed home to watch me and my younger brother. My dad was at work, though; he would stay home tomorrow, and my mom would work. She had been up since early in the morning cooking breakfast. She heard me approaching and turned around. When she saw me, she smiled. "_Bonjour, mon petit monstre. Aves-tu dormi bien_?" (_Good morning, my little monster. Did you sleep well?_)

"_Oui_," I said, then nodded yes.

"Good." She smiled. "I'm making eggs and toast. Do you want to wake up your brothers? It's almost ready."

I nodded again and, like a good little mamma's boy, I ran upstairs to fetch my brothers. I started with my younger brother, Benjamin, who I shared a room with. He was up quickly, so I asked him to wake Andre, my oldest brother. Meanwhile, I went to Claude and Luc's room and wok e them up. Claude was two years older than me and Luc was two years older than Claude. Then Andre was two years older than Luc; he was in college, while the rest of us were in secondary school except Benjamin. When I was younger, I was fascinated by the fact that we were all two years apart. As I got older, the novelty of it wore off.

We all headed downstairs and sat at our respective spots at the table. Having six other family members got difficult sometimes, especially on my parents, but they'd never regretted it. At least, not until I messed up, which my mother was going to find out about very soon.

In fact, it was just past eleven and we were about halfway through breakfast when the telephone rang. Mom looked at it curiously, then answered it in French. Then she looked at me and said, "_Oui. Nous mangeons le petit dejeuner_." She paused again, then said, "_Oui, bien sûr_." Then she nodded, said, "_Oui. Au revoir_," and hung up. ("_Yes. We're eating breakfast,_" "_Yes, of course,_" "_Yes. Good bye._")

She walked back to the table, and said, "_Duncan__, quand tu finis, ton papa ta veut au poste de police. Bon_?" (_Duncan, when you're done, your dad wants you at the police station. Okay?_)

I nodded, and hurried to finish. I was sure it wasn't about what had happened yesterday. I had been careful to cover my face, to hide in the shadows. It was likely Dad just wanted to talk to me about something else; maybe my grades. Or maybe he heard about the prank I'd pulled in school the other day, and the detention I received as a result. So I rinsed my plate, brushed my teeth, changed my clothes and headed out with my bike.

I was there in about twenty minutes. I walked inside and headed up to the front desk. "Hi. My dad called me here," I told them. We were on first name basis; I spent a lot of time at the police station because of my parents.

Their expressions went curiously blank, and without another word, they paged my dad, who was there within minutes. His expression was also blank and, completely silent, he took my hand and led me to his office. He let me go, then sat behind his desk and motioned to me to take a seat. Starting to get nervous, I sat.

He was silent for a minute, typing on the computer, then he turned to me, and, with a controlled, even voice, asked me, "Duncan. Son. Where were you last night, right before dinner?"

I was hesitant. He knew that I was hanging out with my friends yesterday, but he didn't know that I was with them before I went into the house, and I **did** promise to keep my mouth shut in regards to them. So I lied. "I was riding my bike around the suburbs. Why? What's wrong, papa?"

He didn't answer my question. "Were you alone?"

Out of nervousness, I reverted to French, which was technically my first language. "_Oui. Pourquoi? Quel est mauvais_?" (_Yes. Why? What's wrong?_)

Again, he ignored my question. "Are you aware that a house on l'Avenue dix-sept burned down last night?"

"_Non. Pourquoi_?" (_No. Why?_)

He looked me straight in the eye, very serious. I could see that there was a strong emotion in his eyes, and at that time, I couldn't place it, but it scared me. Now that I'm older, and have had time to think about it (in my room in Juvie at night, I had nothing but time), the look could accurately be described as desperation. However, as a kid, I figured it meant he knew, and I knew that I was complete toast. "Duncan. Are you lying to me?"

That question took me too long to answer, and he hung his head, and turned around in his chair, to face the wall. Any chance I had at saving myself was lost. He knew. And I would be in more trouble now than I ever had in my life.

"Papa?" I tried. He held up his hand. I took it as my cue to stay silent.

He stayed turned around for a long time.

* * *

When I came out of my reverie, the sun was about to rise, casting pink and gold rays into the morning sky. It reminded me of a saying my grandma had told me. She lived on the Atlantic coast, and we used to visit her every summer. One morning, I had woken up extra early, before the sun, and walked down to the water. She was already there, casting bread crumbs into the water for the fish and the ducks. I walked up next to her, and she pointed to the sky.

"Duncan, do you see? The sky is so pink. That's a bad sign," she said, sounding foreboding and dramatic.

I was confused. "But, Grandma, it's so pretty! How can it be a bad sign?"

She smiled. "Pink at night is a sailor's delight. Pink in the morning's a sailor's warning."

My face softened thinking about her. Then my stomach clenched, and I cringed. She had passed away while I was in Juvie. I wasn't allowed to go to the funeral. I had to make due with visiting her grave the one summer I was out of Juvie. I had left a flower. A marigold. Her favorite.

I sighed, and even though my joints felt like they were being stabbed with needles, I stayed in the same position until the sun was all the way up. Eventually, I stood. It hurt. I was glad.

* * *

I didn't eat much for breakfast. I was too busy thinking. Even though I was surrounded by chatty people (most likely excited about being in the final five), I barely said a word. Once breakfast was over, I grabbed my things and took a shower, and for once, I tried to take as long as possible.

I tried to distract myself with the temperature of the water. First, I made it really hot. It burned. Then I realized with a shock exactly why I didn't want it to be burning hot, and turned the hot water completely off as fast as I could. The contrasting cold water burned almost as bad as the hot water did, and that was it for my shower. I couldn't think anymore. I was lost again in a memory.

* * *

The horror was evident on my face, but couldn't compare to what I was actually feeling. "What?"

He took another deep breath. Exhaled. Inhaled again, and said, "There was a man... in the house. When it burnt down, he..." My dad's voice broke, and he put his head in his hands. He didn't need to finish the sentence. I knew, even then, that something bad had happened. "He tried to jump out of the attic window," my dad said. My heart raced. So he was still alive? But my dad had said 'tried.' What did that mean? "He broke his back. He was paralyzed from the waist down."

"So he's still alive?" I asked hopefully. My dad gave me a strange look.

"He survived the fall. But when he realized he'd be paralyzed for life, he..." My dad trailed off again. I froze in my seat.

"Papa, what did he do?" I asked fearfully.

My dad put his head in his hands again. I saw him stiffen and pick his head back up. His expression had changed; he looked completely blank, as if he felt nothing at all. "He committed suicide. In the hospital this morning, at four twenty-six."

...What had I done?

* * *

The trial was fast. I didn't need a lawyer, nor did I try to plead innocent. I knew what I'd done and I knew that I deserved punishment for my crime. True to my word, I never mentioned the other boys' names. The story was covered by the news and I became somewhat of a local celebrity, infamy besides. Most of the kids who had been my friends were no longer allowed to talk to me. My parents were blacklisted by most of their friends, and the ones who remained only remained because they pitied them. Rumors flew; many of them had to do with my sanity. The rest of them had to do with my parents' ability to raise children.

My parents' final gift to me was to shorten my sentence. They lied to the court and told them that I was pressured into it. I went along with that, only because my parents wanted me to so badly. I had to do something right by them, even if it was the wrong thing to do. So I was only given two years, a very short sentence all things considered.

I was tried as a juvenile, but most charges of arson warrant at least eight years in prison. More if you kill somebody. However, since that man had killed himself of his own accord, and because I hadn't known he was even in there, the jury decided, to everybody's surprise, that that charge wouldn't stick, and I was innocent of murder.

Not that the man's family hadn't tried to get me charged. Seeing them in court that day, sitting in the witness seat and having their lawyer cross-examine me was the hardest thing I'd ever had to do. Even though I was so young, their lawyer was ruthless. I didn't cry in the courtroom. I refused.

But it was all I did when I got home.

A week later, the trial ended and I was sentenced. The judge said it only took so long because he couldn't think of an adequate sentence; it was confusing for everybody, the house being condemned and all. I'd been praying for a long one; two years did not suffice.

* * *

I shut the water off quickly, but I didn't get out. I stood there, and let the water drip down my face, my shoulders, my back, my legs. I stared at the tap handle, seeing nothing, thinking nothing, hearing nothing. I had to block it out. I couldn't let it get me again, I couldn't let it win. But it had already won. No matter what I did, no matter what I said, no matter how I acted, I couldn't run from it. The guilt. The shame. It wouldn't let me go. I couldn't breathe under the weight of it all.

I choked. I coughed. I coughed so hard I was dizzy, so I sat. I just kept coughing, choking, hyperventilating. I couldn't breathe. I was going to die. The guilt would finally choke me out and kill me.

I found it ironic that it was killing me in the shower. The source of water. Water that put out the fire. The fire I'd used to kill a man. Sure, I didn't kill him directly, but if I hadn't lit the house, he wouldn't have had to jump and he wouldn't have been paralyzed and he wouldn't have killed himself and I'd still be okay. If I'd never burnt down the house I would be okay. I had nobody to blame but myself, so I coughed.

Then I felt suddenly sick. Quickly, blindly, I reached for my towel, wrapped it around my waist, then ran from my shower stall to the toilet and my stomach clenched, and I heaved violently. Once. Twice. Again. And again.

Then I groaned, and sunk to the floor. Weakly, I raised my arm and flushed the toilet. I closed my eyes and leaned against the wall of the stall. It was cold. I ignored it. I heard somebody come in and I ignored it. They didn't notice me. I hoped they didn't try to use the shower stall I'd just been in. My clothes were still in there.

I tried to ignore the thoughts as they tried to flood my mind. At this point though, trying to ignore them was like trying not to throw up when it's already in your mouth. My efforts were wasted. It seems I had to ride this out. I let the thoughts go, and my surroundings disappeared as I, once again, got lost in memory.

* * *

The bus ride to Juvenile Hall was long and boring. The closest Juvenile Detention Center wasn't for hours, which was saying something, because the small bus that took me was going about a hundred kilometers an hour. I wasn't allowed to listen to music or read or anything; I was left alone to my thoughts. Well, my parole officer was with me, but that was before we'd gotten to know each other, so I felt pretty alone.

We were completely silent for a couple of hours. He had attended my trial, so he knew what happened, but still, several hours into our ride, he asked, "Do you regret it?"

I knew what he was talking about. I eyed my cuffed hands, my constrained legs, took a deep breath, and nodded.

He frowned. "Well, you'd better get used to it. This is something that's going to last your whole life." He put down his newspaper, and turned to face me. His seat was the only one that faced the side of the bus, and I was in the first normal seat. "Once you get there, you and I are going to separate for a few minutes. They're going to take everything you've got on you, and give you clothes to change into. They're going to un-cuff you. I don't think you will, but if you try any funny business, your sentence can and will only get longer." Then he looked me up and down, noticed my bowed head, my averted eyes, my blank stare. He saw the bags under my eyes. Then his expression softened. "It'll be alright. Two years isn't so long. The days go fast here. Everyday, you'll wake up at seven. Dress by quarter after. Then you've got a morning run, then showers by eight thirty. Breakfast at nine. Then you'll have seven half-hour school lessons every day starting at nine-thirty. Lunch at one. Half an hour of TV until two. Then you've got free time until five. Five is dinner. After dinner is group. You've got group until eight. Then you've got free time again until ten, which is bed." He told me matter-of-factly. "Things move along quickly. And everybody's always monitored, so you won't have any trouble."

I nodded. I really did try to listen, but I couldn't focus. He didn't know. He didn't have any idea what it was like. He didn't understand the heart-clenching pain. The suffering. The shame. He didn't know how badly I wanted to apologize for what I'd done. To my friends. The man's family. My own family. I shuddered as a chill ran down my spine thinking about how much I'd screwed this all up. My life was ruined. My family's life was ruined. And there was nothing anybody could do, now. Nothing he could do. Nothing he said to me mattered, because nothing he said could make the guilt go away.

* * *

My first day at Juvie was different from what he'd told me and from what I'd expected. My first day was an initiation of sorts; a harsh officer showed me around, explained procedure, set me up in my room, gave me a Bible and fed me my lunch. I didn't eat much. I was afraid. I don't mind admitting it; anybody would be afraid, especially at that age.

My second day, though, was exactly as I'd been told to expect. I was woken at seven sharp; a very loud voice over an intercom sounded in my room from speakers I couldn't find. That scared me a little. But I still climbed out of my bed and made it like I'd been told. I put on my white jumpsuit and stood by the door like I was told. A fully-armed police officer entered, checked my bed, patted me down, making sure I wasn't smuggling anything with me, then ordered me out. I followed him closely, first in line because of my age (the second-youngest boy was at least fourteen), and headed to the field.

I'd seen prison yards before, but only from a distance, in the safe custody of my parents. I'd never even been close to one let alone inside one. As I started to run around the field like I'd been instructed, another boy caught up with me and started to speak.

"Aren't you a little young to be in here?" He'd asked accusingly. My heartbeat sped up, partly because of the exercise, and partly because I was afraid. I thought my parole officer had said I wouldn't be hassled?

I answered him nervously. "Uh... I, uh..."

Then the other boy laughed. "Relax kid, I'm not putting you in front of the fucking firing squad, shit. I'm just asking you how old you are."

"I'm elev—er, twelve."

"Well? Which is it?"

"Twelve. My twelfth birthday was the day before yesterday." And what a wonderful day **that** had been. I had no more friends. My brothers were afraid of me and my parents... My stomach twisted.

"Only twelve..." His voice sounded far away, like he was thinking really hard. Then he snapped back to life and asked, "What'd you do to get in here so fucking young? Christ, kid, your balls haven't even dropped yet, shit!"

A little shocked at the bluntness of his statement, I said, "I burnt down a house." I didn't mention the guy in it. I would never tell anybody about that. I would take that secret with me to the grave. My delinquency was not something to be proud of. Inadvertently killing a man was not something to be proud of.

The boy's eyebrows shot up his forehead. "Shit, kid! What the hell'd you go and do that for?"

"It was... a dare. Sort of." I scratched the back of my head and elaborated. "It was already condemned. It was going to be knocked down last week." Then I shrugged.

The boy just continued to look surprised, and let out a short whistle. Though I was a little breathy when responding, he barely seemed winded. "Christ, kid, most kids in here were just caught in possession or something, Jesus!" He shook his head. "Damn. What's your name, kid?"

"Duncan."

He nodded. "My brother's name is Duncan. He's eighteen, a year older than me." So that made him seventeen. Interesting to know. He shook his head again. "Christ, man, arson at eleven... Fuck, you're gonna be murdering by twenty, holy shit!"

My blood ran cold, and, ignoring his calls, I ran harder, away from this foul-mouthed guy who didn't know anything... couldn't think before he spoke...

* * *

My stomach heaved again, but nothing came out. I coughed. Choked. I was being held under water, forced to breathe without any air. Whoever it was that came in must have heard me; he or she hadn't started the shower yet. Or else they had come across my clothes and, in the few seconds it took for the memory to process, tried to look for me.

Finally, I heard Gwen's voice. "Duncan? Is that you?"

I said nothing.

"Duncan. Come on, I know that's you, you left your clothes in the shower stall. Are you okay?" She asked. I looked under the door. Her feet were right outside.

I said nothing again.

"Look, Duncan, if it's about Courtney, you sa—"

My stomach twisted, and I heaved again. Nothing.

"Duncan?"

I coughed. "I'm fine. Go away."

She didn't move. "No, Duncan, you're **not** fine. Something's wrong. Come on. Let me in. I'm your friend, I can help you."

I was silent for a second, mentally denying her words. "No you can't," I whispered.

I could almost feel her frown. "Well, at the very least, you can talk, and I can listen. Come on, Duncan, holing yourself up, presumably naked, in the bathroom isn't going to help."

She was right. At the very least, I should put my clothes on. Being naked wasn't helping at all. So I stood. I was dizzy for a second, but I righted myself and adjusted my towel. Then I opened the door, and she looked at me with a concerned expression, holding her shower bag with crossed arms. She kind of reminded me of my mom. Just a little bit. It didn't help matters any. I passed her by and went into the shower stall. I was mostly dry, so I just put my clothes on, not caring if they got a little wet. They would dry. They would be fine. If only life were more like that. If only life had its wet patches, then got dry. That would be nice.

Once I'd pulled my shoes on, I walked back out. I would humor Gwen. Make up some story about how I was moping because of Courtney and get on with my life. I was a great actor; I could get by for the day, and then mope at night. That would be acceptable.

So, putting on my best blank face, I said, "Well?"

She nodded, and led me out of the washrooms and towards the beach. Now that Bridgette and Geoff were gone, the beach was almost always empty. Today was no exception; the only signs that anybody had been there were my footsteps from this morning. But Gwen didn't know or need to know that.

She led me all the way to the deck, and we sat down. She waited barely a second before asking me, "What's wrong?"

I shrugged. "I guess I just miss Courtney."

She looked at me suspiciously. "I don't know, Duncan. I don't think that's it. You were just fine yesterday. You were even the one who told me and Geoff about what happens after all of this. I think it's something else."

I shook my head. "No. It's not."

"Yes it is."

"No, it's **not**."

"Yes, it **is**."

I glared.

She glared back. "Come on, Duncan. I can help you."

"No."

"Duncan, you might as well just tell me. I'm not going to leave you alone until you tell me..."

* * *

I was brought back again to the first day of Juvie, right after I'd tried to run away from the kid who told me I'd be murdering. I may have been fast, but my legs were still too short, and he caught up easily. "Whoa, Duncan, dude, what's up? Was it something I said?"

I shook my head, scowled, and tried to run faster. He kept up with me. "Seriously, dude, what's wrong?"

"Nothing!"

"Dude, you might as well tell me. I'm not going to leave you alone until you tell me. And you might want to stop running so fast, kid, we've still got about half an hour until they let us stop."

I took his advice and slowed down. The guy continued to run next to me. I still didn't say anything. "Kid?" He asked, sounding concerned.

I opened my mouth to reply...

* * *

"It was an accident," I whispered, not looking at her, not looking away, but looking at the ground. At my hands on the ground. My hands that lit the fire. My hands that killed a man.

"An accident? What do you mean?" She asked. Probably thinking I meant Courtney. "Did something happen?"

"Yea. A long time ago. It was an accident. I would never do it on purpose," I whispered again. I knew that, to her, it made no sense, but it kind of helped me. Maybe she was right. Maybe talking about it would help.

But I'd promised. Never talk about the death. It was a pact I'd made with myself. I couldn't break the pact.

Surely, though, I could refer to the accident? That he'd been hurt, not that he'd died? It was a bit of a loophole, and kind of ridiculous that I should try to find a loophole in a rule I'd set for myself, but I couldn't bring myself to break it. So I was vague instead.

"A long time ago... I played a prank. And someone got hurt," I said slowly, editing as I went. Internally, I cringed. A prank. Yea, right. "It was an accident. A terrible accident. But I've never stopped regretting it."

She looked apprehensive. This was apparently not what she'd had in mind. "It couldn't have been that bad, Duncan, and even if it was, it's not like you did it intentionally, you just said so yourself."

I looked at her desperately. "The man ended up paralyzed, Gwen." '_Please understand_,' I pleaded with her in my mind. '_Tell me it's okay. Tell me it wasn't my fault._' "He'll never walk again. Is **that** okay?" '_Please?_'

"It was an accident, right? You didn't mean for it to happen?" I nodded rapidly. "And you're sorry for it." Nodded again. "And you would never do it again?" I nodded a final time, and she gave me a small smile. "Well then, what are you so worked up about?"

I gave her a smile right back. It was a tired one, with very little feeling behind it, but it was a smile I wasn't sure I would have been able to work up if she hadn't just given me the answer I'd needed to hear.

For the longest time, I'd been told by everybody that it was something I would never get over. Something that I would regret for a long time. Something that would haunt me forever. And they were right; I would never stop thinking about it, never stop regretting it. But they'd never told me that I could forgive myself. They never said it was an option.

"I'm gonna go," I said, standing up and walking away.

"Where are you going?" She asked immediately, sounding worried.

"Just going... for a walk," I said, halfway down the dock. She stood and walked swiftly behind me, trying to catch up. "I want to be alone."

She faltered, and walked at her own pace now. "Alright. Don't do anything you'll regret later!" She warned.

I laughed once, sarcastically. "Wish you'd been around to tell me that before!"

* * *

He had never given me an answer. When I told him all about it, about everything that had happened, he never told me that it was okay. Never said that I could forgive myself, never told me it was an accident. No. What he'd said was, "Damn, kid. Murdering at twelve. That's pretty fucked up. So how long're you in for?"

He was impressed. I was revolted.

I never bothered to ask for the kid's name, but eventually, he gave it to me; it was Ronald. He was seventeen, and he was in for possession and driving without a license. He had six months, one and a half of which were already past. It was from him that I picked up my now ex-swearing habit. It was from him that I'd gotten millions of prank ideas. It was he who explained to me the concept of "Rush the New Guy," and he who had told me that it was okay to like fire as long as you never let it get out of control. He was my mentor of sorts, an ally. He protected me from the other older kids. He turned me bitter. He turned me angry. And I was sad to see him go at the end of his sentence.

I wasn't even thirteen when I realized that this one incident had ruined my life. What was the point of trying to save myself? It wouldn't get me anywhere. Instead of being repentant, I was angry. Instead of learning my lesson, I learned how to fight. Instead of learning in my classes, I learned street smarts. I became the perfect criminal.

And when I got out after my two years were up, it was barely two weeks before I was back in.

* * *

I had reached the confessional just as I reached a conclusion. So I turned on the camera, took a deep breath, and said, "To my parole officer." Then I said his address, city and province. Then I told the camera mine. I paused a split second, put my elbows on my knees and my head in my hands and then I let go. And I mean really let go. I hyperventilated, choked, gagged, heaved, groaned, and repeated the cycle. Everything I'd felt in the washrooms had come back; the only difference was that this would be the last time. The whole time, I kept repeating weakly, "I'm sorry. I'm sorry. For everything I've done, I'm so sorry." I started listing everything I'd ever done, everything I had to be guilty for, things he knew about and the things he didn't. Drug possession. Drinking underage. Driving without a license. Trespassing, tagging, stealing, burning, fighting. Everything. I didn't care if he used this against me in the future. I had to get it off my chest.

"Everything. I'm sorry." Then I took a deep breath. It felt like the first one I'd taken in hours. "And the biggest one—the first one, the arson and the paralyzing; the death—that one's my biggest regret." I took another deep breath. "But that one... it's okay. Well, not okay. Not forgivable. But... I'm okay. I've paid back my debt to society. And I've let myself suffer long enough. I'll never stop regretting what I did. But I can regret it and forgive myself at the same time. I didn't do it on purpose, and that's enough for me." Then I shut off the camera, took out the tape and put it on the "to send" shelf.

I put in another tape, and said my own address twice. "I'm sorry," I said again, softly, only this time, I was much calmer than I'd been when addressing my parole officer. "For everything. All the bad stuff I did. All the pain and suffering I put you through. You didn't deserve to have a son like me, or at least, the son I've become. And, yes, it is my fault. I always had a choice, and I always chose bad. But..." I trailed off, trying to think of what to say.

"I think it was because of Juvie," I continued, choosing my words carefully. "It wasn't me who turned myself into a delinquent. The delinquents at Juvie turned me into a delinquent." I frowned, and my expression changed into one of determination. "So I'm done. I'm done hurting you guys. I'm done putting myself through this. I'm going to stop it. All of it. The talking back. The disrespect. I don't want to be a monster." Then I smiled, a true, honest-to-goodness smile. "So I won't be." Then I turned off the camera, removed the tape again, and put it on top of the first one. Then I put one last tape in there for the next person.

* * *

I'd been to Juvie eleven times. Eleven times in four years. You'd think they would have learned their lesson and just kept me in there until I turned eighteen. Most of my sentences were short—three months here, two months there—and my longest stay had been the two years I served for the arson. But I committed many more crimes than I was given credit for, and I think that made it worse.

But now, I was done. Maybe because it had all finally caught up to me, or maybe it was because I had finally met someone (and by someone, I mean Heather) who made being bad actually look like a bad thing, or maybe it really was because of Courtney, and how I had to be better than I was to even deserve her presence, but I was done being the bad guy. I was done hurting my parents and I was done putting myself through all of that. Enough was enough.

The next time I went to Juvie, it'll be because, like my parole officer, I used to do bad things. It will be because, like my parole officer, I'd turned over a new leaf. It'll be because, like my parole officer, I hoped to find somebody I could save. To redeem myself for all my bad, I had to find someone to save. Maybe then my skeletons would finally be at peace.

* * *

**A/N:** I know what you're thinking; ToTheSun, you have time to be writing this giant tangent to your longest (and only) running series not on hiatus. Where's our chapter?  
Well, faithful reader o' mine, there's an answer for that.

I had this written weeks ago. I was alone one night, thinking about this story, and it occurred to me that Duncan needs a chapter to explain how this whole Juvie thing got started. He'd always been somewhat of a prankster, but he's not outwardly bad, so what happened? Why is he so gung-ho about being such a jerk?

Hopefully, this helps explain why the Duncan portrayed in my story Total Duncan Island acts the way he does. You don't need to read it to understand, nor do you need to read this if you read my story.

Another thing. This is not specifically true in real life TDI canon. This is my theory on how Duncan got sent to Juvie. This is NOT fact. Just so you all know.

I hope you enjoyed it. :D Next chapter of Total Duncan Island will be out whenever I get around to writing some more.


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